A Knight Well Spent. Jackie Ivie

and then shrugged before putting it back into the fire. It was a special knife; hers for years. It was one of her prized possessions. Now it was strangely tinted and used, but still prized.

      If he’d suffered anything like tears, they were nowhere in existence as she knelt and pressed the blade to him the second time. In fact, he was looking at her with something indefinable. His expression sent shivers through her. Aislynn had to look away. He was too immense. He was too strange. Everything was. The entire morning was getting too large to absorb. She was going to be late at the mill. She’d be punished. And she was tired. That was especially strange. Aislynn never tired.

      She hung her head and waited for the blade to cool against his skin before sliding it away. He was going to have a definite scar below his knee but there wasn’t one sign of poison.

      “I believe…you succeeded,” he commented finally but with the same disjointed phrasing. “It isn’t bleeding. You didn’t hear…me cursing…much?”

      “I dinna’ have to,” she whispered.

      “Discard…it. I infuse suffering…with anger. Makes it…bearable. My. You did…well. It even…feels better.”

      “I’m na’ finished,” she told him. He went so tense next to her that she felt it. “Dinna’ fret—it will na’ pain. I’m going to wrap it with special moss. It will soothe. It will keep poison away. Nae one will know. You’ll have full use of it again soon…then you can go back to your business of war and killing.”

      “W-war and—and—and…killing? Why…do you…say that?”

      She should have bitten her tongue to keep from saying it. She spoke her next words to the grass. “You’re verra large. Fit. Scarred. You kept a weapon in your leg for days ignoring the pain. Such things define what a man is and by your own words you’re nae knight. I decide at what I dinna’ know. I use clues. You’ve given me some.”

      “Unlike…all else you say…that one is not—not—not…it’s wrong.”

      Aislynn looked up, caught her lip at the intent look on his face and looked away. “I—I have to get the moss,” she stammered.

      “It will be…most welcome.”

      She stood and moved to where she’d left the woven greenish netting, covered with a thick layer of lichen. It looked wet enough. It smelled of earth and loam and the strength of the spirits. She lifted a section between her fingers and thumb and approached him with it. Then she was kneeling beside him, placing the lichen atop the freshly cauterized flesh and holding it there.

      “Lady?” he whispered.

      Aislynn turned her head, moving her eyes up his tunic-covered chest, and caught his gaze. The moment she did, she knew she was in trouble. She forgot to breathe, every thought flew her head, and pinpricks of sensation tickled the area about her nose. She’d known he was disturbing, she just hadn’t realized how much. She’d never felt this way. It surprised and stunned and terrified…and yet it felt wondrous, too. Aislynn knew there wasn’t any such thing as love in the world anymore. The warring and killing destroyed it. There was no such thing as love, and there certainly wasn’t such a thing as love at first sight. Such an idea was for those who believed in faeries.

      “You’ve my…thanks.” He stopped and licked his lips. “I’d pay…but I have no—no coin with me. I’ll…have some sent. Tell me where.”

      Aislynn looked down and welcomed the embarrassing sting of reaction. Love at first sight? she wondered. It was obviously one-sided and he was stewed. She cleared her throat in order to answer as forcefully as the Lady of the Brook would. “You must forget me. That is my price. And my payment.”

      “What…if I say…nay?” he asked, filling the glade with sound again.

      She didn’t have a choice. She had to turn back to him and force herself to show nothing although the thudding of her heart was loud in her ears. “I’m a healer but I’m also Scot. I dinna’ know what you are, but I’m certain ’tis na’ Scot. You’ve Sassenach clothing and speak the Norman tongue. I’ll stand accused of treachery if my actions are known.”

      He gave her a level look, then it wavered as he smiled. When he answered, his words were worse slurred. “N-not good enough. The only treachery…is to me. I’ll buy you. I mean…your services. Now. Ride with me. Now. I mean, as soon as I reach the horse. Then. We’ll ride…then. Away. I’ll allow none to call you…other than lovely—I mean healer. Beauteous healer.”

      Aislynn gulped. “The only men requiring services such as I render are warring and killing men,” she said softly.

      “And men who live, breathe…get sick…and bleed,” he replied, with a tremble to the words. “I’m surprised. You’re young…for such a—a—a thing. Healing. That…thing. ’Tis…im—im—impressive.”

      The last was said as he lifted his injured leg and angled his head to look down the length of it. Aislynn found herself doing the same. She had to turn aside after the first glance though. With his limb raised as it was, every solid, rippled contour stood out. What morning sun was reaching through the willow above them was caressing every knotted muscle with light and shadow. He looked exactly what he was: a Sassenach warrior—and an extremely powerful one. She’d never seen anything like him. She didn’t think she ever would again.

      “Something…troubles you?” he asked.

      He was having such difficulty with his words, he sounded drunk. And then Aislynn knew. He was weak from loss of blood. She’d done him a disservice by giving him the mead. She should have brought less. She looked back at him and did her best to keep the thought from showing.

      “I must go. I’ll fetch the wrapping. To keep the moss against your wound. It should na’ pain you as much. It will knit well, given time. It may leave a vicious scar, though. It will na’ be pretty.”

      “Scars?” He rolled a sigh through his lips. “They don’t…bother me.”

      A warrior to the bone. She shrugged. “Then it will na’ trouble you.”

      “Besides I wear…thick woolens. For the clime.”

      He probably didn’t mean to bring her attention to the fact that his hose were about his ankles, leaving him as naked beneath his tunic as if he wore a plaide, but that was what happened. Aislynn started, pulled her gaze away, and endured every bit of the heat that flooded her.

      “I must ask you…something. I wonder how to proceed with it, though,” he said, and he was back to the whisper again.

      “I’ll fetch your wrapping.”

      “Wait.” He reached out and caught her arm with one hand. Aislynn had known she was slight in comparison to him, but she didn’t realize the extent of it as his hand closed about her upper arm. She knew he noted it as his forehead wrinkled. She was slender. She was considered frail and sickly by everyone she knew. That was why she wore a large, voluminous cloak.

      “I would ask…a question. Will you…listen?” he continued.

      “You ask such, after making certain I canna’ do otherwise?”

      His lips twitched. She felt her heart do the exact same motion.

      “Do you have…a man? Mayhap…a husband?” he asked.

      Aislynn’s eyes went huge. She couldn’t prevent it. She was very wary of the question. She’d just taken a Celt lance tip from a very large, overpowering, and muscular warrior. She knew him to be a warring and killing man, despite his claims to the contrary. It wasn’t a far leap to think him capable of warring, killing, and the ravishment of females.

      “Why do you ask?” She had to swallow to make the words.

      He blew a sigh, feathering the blond wisps of hair at his forehead. “I don’t know. Because you…are here. I…am here.” He licked his lips. “I may not…come